


The Truth of Masks

by intravenusann



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Frottage, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Historical References, M/M, Movie Reference, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: When the Goldstein sisters take Credence as their date to MACUSA's annual Halloween ball, he meets a man in a mask. What happens after that? Well, it's like something out of a motion picture.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morwrach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/gifts).



> This fic owes great debts to Steven, who helped me come up with cool magical Halloween party ideas, and to [Burgundians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgundians/pseuds/burgundians), who just writes a spectacular Credence whom I wanted to emulate here. There's at least one reference to her fic ["you're in my blood like holy wine,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123922) but this is not at all that same fic 'verse.
> 
> Also, there's some references to Credence having kissed another character in the past.
> 
> Prompt was: "Credence dresses up as someone entirely different to himself for Hallowe'en (drag optional). The freedom of being someone else allows him to finally act on his desires for Graves - but Graves just wants Credence as Credence."

> “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” 
> 
> — Oscar Wilde, The Critic As Artist

“Well, I can’t exactly take Jacob,” Queenie says. “Can I?”

The corner of Credence’s mouth flinches.

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t mean it like that, Credence, it’s just… I don’t want to go by myself.”

An invitation for Quintessence Deborah Goldstein and one guest sits on the table between them. Credence watches a little broomstick made of ink fly across the top left corner. The MACUSA seal glitters in a way that likely isn’t menacing to anyone else.

“And besides, it’s a costume ball,” she says. “No one’s gonna know that it’s you. You could be _anybody_.”

“Alright,” Credence says. 

A week later, Tina stops by his apartment above the bookshop where Augustus Worme’s sister-in-law employs him out of the kindness of her heart. Credence cannot imagine any other reason for it. 

“So,” Tina says. “Any big plans for Halloween?”

“Queenie invited me to something,” Credence tells her. The cup for his coffee doesn’t match the one in Tina’s hand. The percolator is borrowed from Beatrice Grimsditch, the owner of Grims Book Store and Credence’s employer as well as his downstairs neighbor. 

The store sees a lot of customers from MACUSA’s investigations department, and Tina’s regular presence raises no one’s suspicions. Even Seraphina Picquery counts herself as a loyal customer since her school days. All this Credence has heard from Mrs. Grimsditch whenever they are between customers and he has an open ear for her stories about America’s oldest magical families. 

Credence often recognizes people from the back of the print shop — the sounds of their voices and the glimpses of faces — but pretends that he does not. He’s always been good at that.

Tina’s shoulders slump when she sighs. Credence glances down into his coffee.

“Well,” Tina says, “so much for that.” 

“It’s only because she isn’t comfortable inviting Jacob,” Credence says. “Since it’s a magical event.”

Two years of knowing the truth about witches and wizards have not made the rules of this secret part of New York City any easier to understand — perhaps because Credence has spent much of that time anywhere but America. All the places he’s been, but he couldn’t find a home anywhere but New York.

“I’m not sure how it’s any safer to take you,” Tina says.

“No one knows me,” Credence says. “And I don’t know anyone but Queenie and you.”

Tina lifts her chin and gives Credence a hesitant smile.

“That’s not true,” she says. 

Credence does not return her smile.

“So,” she says, after enough silence, “what are you going as?”

“Going as?” he repeats.

“I’m sure Queenie would help you make any costume you wanted,” Tina says. “Or she’ll just pick one for you if you don’t. She did that to me the first year we were both invited.”

“Did that go well?” Credence asks. 

Tina’s mouth twists up for a moment. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess?”

The next week, Credence heads to the 600 block of W 24th Street, to the bit of Chelsea that only exists for those with magic, carrying a stack of decidedly unmagical periodicals. 

Queenie invites him in for dinner and afterwards they sit with cocoa and talk lightly about Jacob’s bakery and the seamstress shop where Modesty has an apprenticeship, as though these aren’t names that make their tongues stumble.

“I was wondering if you could help me make a costume for the ball,” Credence says.

He sets down his mug of cocoa. “If you still wanted me to go with you.”

“Of course!” Queenie says. She brushes Credence’s concerns off with the wave of her hand.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She picks up the magazines and looks at the cover of each, one by one. Credence sits with his knees together, watching her.

“You know,” Queenie says, “this isn’t really the sorta stuff I thought you’d be into.”

He doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing or not.

“You’re just so solemn all the time,” she says, “so grave.”

The slight downturn of his mouth certainly proves her point, but Credence can’t help frowning. 

“Do you think I should go as something else?” he asks. “Is this too hard to make?”

“No!” Queenie says. She drops the magazines onto her lap.

“I think you oughta be a masked hero if that’s what you wanna be,” she says. “We just gotta get you the right hat.” 

She grins at him, all teeth and pink lipstick. Hesitantly, Credence smiles back.

On the 31st of October, Beatrice Grimsditch asks Credence to close up the shop early. 

“Now,” she says, “treat those Goldstein girls right, don’t go leading them on just because you’re a handsome young man.”

She fixes Credence’s collar while he tries not to swallow his own tongue. 

“They’re friends,” he says, while Mrs. Grimsditch whisks a bit of book dust off his jacket with the wave of her wand.

She nods her grey head and hums something in the back of her throat.

“Have a wonderful time,” she says, “and a happy Halloween! I still remember the MACUSA masquerade of 1864.”

Credence hears the whole story before he makes it out of the book shop. By the time he gets to Chelsea, the sun has already started to set. He climbs the fire escape and taps on the Goldsteins’ window with his knuckles.

“You’re here!” Queenie says dragging the window open.

She reaches out to hug him with a dagger in her right hand. Credence hesitates, but still puts his arms around her. The gauzy fabric hanging from her headdress covers Credence’s face for a moment, turning the interior of the apartment a lovely shade of lavender. 

“Why do you have a knife?” he asks, after she helps him into the apartment.

“Oh!” Queenie says. “I never told you what my costume is, did I? I’m Juliet.”

She lifts the dagger above her breasts in their laced-up, lavender bodice and feigns a sigh. For a moment, her pink mouth drops into a pouting frown. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. Then, just as quickly, Queenie lowers her hand and lifts her chin. She smiles and it transforms her from tragedy to beauty as she smooths down the skirt of her dress, which falls just below her knees.

“You look beautiful,” Credence tells her. 

She smiles. “You’re too sweet!”

Tina comes out of her bedroom wearing an evening gown speckled with dull, metallic scales. At first glance, Queenie’s costume is the most beautiful and compelling. But after Tina’s hugged him, Credence sees the little wings stitched to the straps of her dress at the back. They flap slightly when she moves, to match the swish of the tail that hangs from the belt around her hips.

“I’m a dragon,” she says, smiling. She draws a mask down from on top of her head and covers half her face in scales and spikes. For a moment, her dark eyes flash red.

Then she lifts the mask.

“Is it dumb? It seems kind of dumb.”

“Actually,” Credence says, “it’s a little frightening.”

“Oh,” she says. Her hand goes to her belt and she picks at a metal scale.

The most magical thing about Credence’s costume is how much it makes him look like someone else. The black fabric of his mask covers his hair and half his face — all except his nose and mouth. He didn’t shave in the morning, so stubble peppers his jaw and cheeks in a way that looks unfamiliar on him. The wide-brimmed hat perfectly matches the mask and the rest of his black clothes. Once night falls, Credence will just about disappear into the dark.

Queenie ties a red sash around his waist. He adjusts it a few times while she and Tina argue about turning a knitting needle into a sword.

“He’s got to have a real one,” Queenie says.

“He could hurt someone with it,” Tina insists. “Or himself!”

“He’s not gonna do that,” Queenie tells her. “Besides, you’re the one who could have added some fire-breathing to her costume and didn’t.”

“Because I’m not a total lunatic,” Tina says.

“Look, Teenie, some of us actually wanna have fun tonight.”

Credence tucks the hilt of the sword against his side using his sash like a belt.

Queenie slips a royal purple mask over her eyes and smiles at him. “Ready to go?”

Credence chooses not to apparate on his own, though there’s no need for a license here in New York City. He knows how. But there’s a moment in the darkness where he worries he’ll forget he has a body if he doesn’t have someone’s hand in his. Tonight, Queenie has his right hand and Tina, his left.

Both sisters hold tight enough to keep him from staggering forward into the couple who has just apparated in a moment earlier. The woman turns and looks at Credence disapprovingly; even the gaping maw of a jack-o’-lantern on her skirt turns into a frown.

“There are going to be a _lot_ of people here,” Tina says.

“Pretty much everybody who works in the whole Congress,” Queenie adds. “Plus their dates.”

She pinches the fabric of Credence’s sleeve and smiles at him.

“I’ve got the cutest one,” she says, her nose wrinkling up from the force of her smile.

Tina sighs. 

When Queenie hooks her arm around Credence’s elbow, he offers his other to Tina. She rolls her eyes slightly, but smiles as she puts her arm in his. This is, perhaps, the most popular that he can ever recall being — though he knows he is not either Goldstein sister’s first choice. He is the convenient option. The alternative slightly better than going alone.

“Stop that,” Queenie says. Her elbow touches Credence’s side like a warning.

“What?” Tina asks. 

They follow the disgruntled jack-o’-lantern all the way into the Woolworth Building, where a towering suit of armor accepts the invitations from Queenie and Tina.

“And guest,” Queenie says, smiling.

The armor nods with the harsh sound of metal scraping against metal. It moves a massive glaive from the door and allows the three of them to pass.

Credence looks up first and then up and up and up.

The moon looks hung like a chandelier at the center of the ceiling with blazing, burning stars that glint in greens and purples swirling all around. His lips part as a dark cloud passes over the brightness of the moon and bursts into hundreds of bats. An owl swoops through the dark, chasing down one hapless bat.

Credence’s lips part slightly.

“Really something, ain’t it?” Queenie says. 

They’ve reached a banquet table stretched twenty feet or more. She hands him a glass shaped like a cauldron.

“It’s cranberry,” she says, as the drink bubbles and smokes.

Above the table, black candles float as easily as fireflies. The food looks almost frightening under the flickering orange light they cast. The moon casts a silver-white spotlight out over a dance floor populated with actual goblins as well as a few humans pretending. There are gossamer winged fairies and someone that Credence thinks is supposed to be Dorcus Twelvetrees — or else she simply has an uncanny resemblance to the portraits in the history books Grims carries.

A couple perched on a broomstick take a low sweep over the dancers. Credence can see them kissing with their skirts tangled up. As astonished as he is by their elaborate pirate costumes — complete with shining cutlasses — he doesn’t think about the matter of two women kissing so passionately until they are long gone.

Queenie sips her still smoking drink with a straw.

“I didn’t expect things to be this… wild already,” Tina says.

“It’s Halloween, Teenie!” Queenie says.

She pulls a pin from her hair then, one of the long ones holding her headpiece in place, and dunks it into Credence’s drink.

“Excuse me,” he says, both confused and disgusted. Then she takes out her wand and the hairpin quickly turns into a straw.

“If I find a blonde hair in my drink,” Credence says.

“You’ll think of me fondly,” Queenie says. “Isn’t that right?”

She grins.

Credence can hardly hear her over the exuberant music, so he doesn’t try to respond.

A woman walks past in a glittering black gown that drapes low on her narrow chest. The man holding her arm has a shirt that hangs open even lower. Credence looks at the moonlight glancing off his skin as much as he looks at the pair’s massive bat-like wings that stretch up over their heads.

“Queenie!” someone shrieks.

Credence looks over to find a woman wearing a dress of white feathers. Her cloche has even more feathers and an actual chicken’s head. Credence puts his straw in his mouth and sips his bubbling drink so that he doesn’t ask her what butcher shop gave her all those feathers.

“Jenny!” Queenie says. 

The woman kisses Queenie’s cheek and Credence sees the chicken’s eye open and close. The hat makes a soft crooning sound.

“Brigid is around here somewhere too,” Jenny says. “She turned her favorite wool coat into a lamb for her Bo Peep costume, but now of course she’s lost it.”

Queenie hides her laugh behind her hand.

“So, who are you?” Jenny says. She doesn’t so much as glance at Credence, so he continues to sip his drink. It’s rather tart, but the fizz at the back of his tongue is pleasant.

“Juliet!” Queenie says.

“And this is Romeo?” Jenny asks.

She looks at Credence and he takes the straw out of his mouth. 

“No,” he says. “Zorro.”

“What?” Jenny asks. She tilts her head and her chicken hat squawks.

Credence tries to withdraw his sword from his sash, but it catches and he nearly spills his drink on himself for his trouble.

“It’s a No-Maj character from one of those pulp magazines,” Queenie says.

“Oh,” Jenny says. “I don’t read any of the No-Maj pulps. They’re kind of boring, I think, the pictures don’t even move.”

Letting go of the hilt of his sword, Credence puts the straw of his drink back in his mouth and slurps up the last of it.

“Come dance with me!” Jenny says. “Both of you!”

She grabs Queenie’s hand, but Queenie does not grab Credence.

“Bernard is here as the Green Knight,” he hears Jenny say as she pulls Queenie away. 

At a distance, Queenie looks over her shoulder and mouths, “Sorry!”

“Want another drink?” Tina asks.

Credence looks over and finds her holding a small plate piled with oyster shells, tiny pies and a few sausages wrapped in dough.

“There’s actual food?” he asks.

“Not at this table,” Tina says. “I just got back from the one over there.”

She gestures with her thumb, but all Credence sees in that direction is so many bodies in so many colorful costumes. He feels dizzy with the variety — or the flickering light from so many bobbing candles.

The brightest of all the costumes Credence notices is a man all in red, from his hat to his cape to his stockings. Credence watches until the man turns and sees that his face is completely covered with a mask carved like a skull. The breath catches in his throat.

It’s not accurate to the film, he thinks, it’s almost _more_ impressive.

Tina hands him an oyster on the half-shell and Credence tips it into his mouth without even thinking. He barely tastes it.

Of course, the man could simply be dressed as the Red Death from the story. But Edgar Allan Poe wasn’t a wizard, was he? Someone would have mentioned that, Credence thinks. Was Shakespeare a witch?

The Red Death turns with a sweep of his bright cape and disappears further into the darkness.

“I’m going to get something else to drink,” Tina says. “Come with me?”

She offers Credence her bare elbow. Her eyes are brightly crimson behind her mask, but he can still see the shape of them change when she smiles at him.

“Yes, of course,” he says.

Past the dance floor and behind the band performing on a massive stage decorated like a gallows, Tina leads him to a bar carved with knights and wizards who seem to gaze upward in judgment at the costumed partygoers drinking before them. Credence notes a woman draped in a spider’s webs of netting with a few extra pairs of blinking eyes on her cap. Beside her, a woman in a pink, feathered dress and matching casque speaks with a man wearing a suit made of crossword puzzles that fill themselves out while Credence watches.

“What do you feel like?” Tina asks.

“Overwhelmed,” Credence says, after a moment.

“Well,” Tina says. “Alright, fair. I’ll just get you some water then.”

She nudges a few people out of the way, but Credence stands a step behind her. He glances this way and that, as much as he can without turning his head or staring. A group of men dressed like Puritans drink something that’s obviously alcoholic, given the ruddy flush on their cheeks and noses. Credence thinks there’s probably something humorous about that.

Tina hands him a goblet filled with water. A piece of ice carved like a skull floats in the center of it. Credence carefully moves the straw Queenie made him from the empty cauldron to his new drink. Then he reaches over Tina’s shoulder to leave the cauldron where a barback can take it away. He doesn’t want to cause a hassle. 

“So I guess it would be stupid to ask if you’re having fun,” Tina says.

“I don’t know,” Credence says. 

He sips his water from the straw and watches Tina knock back something from a glass the size of two of her fingers.

“Are you having fun?” he asks.

“Not really,” she says. “But it’s important to be here. I even went the Halloween after I got demoted.”

Credence nods. Tina blinks her red eyes at him and smiles.

“Actually, that year was pretty fun,” she says. “Somebody from records drank too much and cast a leavening charm that got them stuck on the chandelier — it was a giant globe that year.”

She laughs. 

“You could say they were sitting on top of the world,” she adds.

Credence has to laugh just a little.

“Do you think anyone’s going to end up on the moon this year?” he asks.

“Oh, probably,” Tina tells him.

They both look up to the ceiling and silvery, but fake moon. The light of it catches on all the facets of the ice in Credence’s glass, bringing out every tooth. He takes another sip and feels the cold shoot up to the top of his own skull.

“Goldstein?” someone says. “Is that you?”

Tina turns and Credence follows her gaze. The person standing there in a high collar and top hat has large, dark eyes and a broad nose. She smiles a little crookedly and dark curls peek out from beneath the edge of her hat.

“Rodriguez?” Tina asks. 

“The one and only,” she says.

Rodriguez looks at Credence and her smile slides right off her face.

“Is this your date?” she asks Tina.

“Oh, uh, no,” Tina says. “This is my sister’s date.”

“Huh,” Rodriguez says, staring Credence down. He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of making him look away.

“Yeah, I heard from somebody that Abernathy’s whining about how she won’t give him the time of day now ’cause she’s got a beau,” Rodriguez says. Her eyes narrow. Credence doesn’t blink.

“So,” Tina says. “What are you? I mean, besides handsome.”

She laughs in a way that, to Credence, sounds uncomfortable.

Rodriguez looks away, finally, and offers Tina a bright smile. It’s still a bit slanted to one side, Credence notes. Rodriguez reaches out and snakes an arm around Tina’s waist.

“I’m a cad, darling,” Rodriguez says, her voice dropped at least an octave.

Tina’s eyes go wide and her mouth turns into a flat line.

“But not really,” Rodriguez says. Her hand moves up to Tina’s bare back between her wings.

“Well, as you can see, I’m a dragon,” Tina says. 

“Should I worry about getting roasted and eaten?” Rodriguez asks.

“No,” Tina says. “Queenie tried to talk me into fire-breathing, but I didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“Not at a bar,” Rodriguez says.

“That’s what I told her, but she said I’m just…” Tina lifts and then drops her hand, “boring.”

“You are anything but boring,” Rodriguez says with a smile. “So, what kind of dragon are you, exactly?”

“Ironbelly,” Tina says. “Ukrainian Ironbelly. It’s the largest.”

“And the most ferocious, right?” Rodriguez says. “Morrigan’s wand, do you remember that Chinese ring bringing Fireball eggs in through Vancouver?”

“What a mess that was,” Tina says.

“Woulda been a bigger mess without you,” Rodriguez says, and Tina smiles.

Credence turns away as they continue to talk about work and Tina leans back against Rodriguez’s arm. There’s certainly plenty of other things for him to look at. Credence watches the riotous dance floor from a safe distance. Someone in a costume with wings like a cicada clutches desperately to their dance partner’s hand to keep from floating off into the air, their wings beating rapidly. He sips his ice water.

He glances to the left.

The Red Death appears suddenly from between the man in the crossword puzzle suit and someone dressed as a penguin. Credence blinks. For a moment, the dark eyes of the skull mask seem to catch on Credence. He notices the Red Death carries a cane, shorter than the one from the film but otherwise identical. A red gloved hand clutches the handle just beneath the skull and the white body of a snake twists around the rest of it.

Credence wants to tell whoever it is that he likes their costume. 

The Red Death turns away and goes up to the bar only a foot away from Credence. He could reach out and grab him by the cape, if he wanted to. He could snatch the feather from his hat and run for it.

Instead, Credence watches the Red Death lift his mask. 

The bare teeth of a lipless mouth part. Credence cannot hear the man speaking over the music. He is amazed the man can speak at all, looking as he does. He has no nose and hardly any cheeks. But he has dark eyes, deeply creased at the corners, and Credence feels stricken.

He lowers his drink and turns just slightly towards the man. He’s certain he knows him. He must.

The barkeep places a curvaceous glass into the Red Death’s gloved hand. The Red Death puts his mask back in place, hiding the recreation of Erik’s misshapen face. Credence opens his mouth to say something — anything.

“Credence!” Tina says. Her hand on Credence’s shoulder makes him jump.

“Yes,” he says, bringing his glass up in front of his face.

“I’m going with Tatiane,” Tina says. 

“You can come with us,” Rodriguez says. “I mean, people get all intimidated around the president, but she’s gotta be totally blotto by now. It’s our old boss who’s actually scary.”

Tina whirls around in Rodriguez’s arms.

“He’s here?” she asks.

“Yeah, doll, Picquery brought him as her date again this year — though who knows why,” Rodriguez says. “But I haven’t seen him for like an hour, so maybe he left already.”

“Oh,” Tina says.

She looks at Credence.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I was going to look for a washroom anyway.”

“It’s in the back on the left,” Rodriguez says. 

“We should come up with a place to meet,” Tina says. “Later tonight. I mean, Queenie can always find me, but…”

“I can get home on my own,” Credence says. He moves his straw slightly. The skull in his drink has melted beyond recognition.

“You’re sure?” Tina asks. “I wanted you to have a nice time tonight.”

She turns toward Rodriguez, “It’s his first time coming to the masquerade.”

“And your sister ditched him?” Rodriguez asks. “Damn, I thought she was totally gaga over this guy.”

“I’ll go find Queenie,” Credence says, inspired by her words. He may be lying, and the way Tina draws her brows together lets him know that she suspects as much.

“I’ll be fine,” he tells her.

“Alright,” Tina says. She reaches out and touches Credence’s arm. Then Rodriguez tugs on her and Credence steps back.

He looks over, but the Red Death, Erik, the Phantom, whoever he is, has disappeared. Credence sips his water and heads to the left. He squeezes past the penguin, ducking under the costume’s beak, and passes a girl wearing a dress painted like Eiffel Tower. He almost stops to ask if she’s seen it in person. But what if she hasn’t? He would seem arrogant if he told her that he has. He keeps walking.

As though waiting for Credence, the Red Death stands in a far corner of the massive banquet hall. A candelabra as bent and dripping as a willow tree illuminates the vibrant red of his costume and the bright white of his mask.

The Red Death leans his cane against the table with its lopsided candle-holder and removes his mask. Credence watches him lift his glass to his lipless mouth and then pause. In the space of a blink, the monstrous face of the phantom is replaced with one that makes Credence’s heart leap into his throat.

His first impulse is to flee.

The first time Percival Graves came into Grims Book Store, Credence was up the stairs before the bell had stopped chiming above the door. The second time, Credence had only heard his voice and Mrs. Grimsditch’s from the print room in the back. Even more memories return to Credence now — not only of ducking behind towering shelves of books, but also of cobbled alleys and park benches years ago. 

Percival Graves, dressed all in red and holding his skull-shaped mask, sips from his drink without looking up.

Credence reaches up with a gloved hand and touches his own mask.

What does it matter if Credence isn’t sure that the man he knew was ever Percival Graves? He didn’t come to this party dressed anything like Credence Barebone, after all.

He thinks of Don Diego and Lolita Pulido. It really isn’t a thought that fits Credence’s own situation. Not exactly. Or, well, not at all. But Credence didn’t put on a mask and a shirt that only buttons to the center of his chest just to act like the coward he usually is.

Carefully, Credence takes his sword by the hilt and slips it free from his sash. It fits well in his gloved hand.

From his first step, people move out of Credence’s way. He walks with his shoulders back and his chin up, but people are probably more wary of his blade than his posture.

As he gets closer, he sees more and more details of Graves’ costume. He has breeches rather than pants, with bright red stockings that show the exact shape of his legs. Bright spats cover dark, blood red shoes and button all the way up to his ankles. Even the buttons are red. The only bit that isn’t red, Credence realizes, is a black piece of fabric ties over his waistcoat.

This thought moves Credence forward. He knows just what he’s going to say.

“Don Diego,” the Red Death says, raising his glass. “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

Credence immediately forgets what he was going to say.

“You recognize me?” he asks instead.

“Of course I do,” the Red Death says. Percival Graves’ voice does not seem to be muffled at all by the mask. Credence can even hear it over the music.

“I would recognize such a man anywhere,” he says.

Credence blinks. Well, he reasons, if Percival Graves is the sort of man to dress as the Phantom of the Opera, there’s no reason he hasn’t seen other films as well.

“You’re dressed a bit more like the magazines, the stories,” Graves says. “I'm not as familiar with those, but I've read a few.”

Credence smiles and it doesn’t feel out of place on his face. Diego has many smiles for his Lolita, doesn’t he?

“Your costume is better than the film,” Credence says. “I think.”

“Thank you,” Graves says. 

“Though, you are too handsome to be Erik,” Credence says.

Graves laughs and lifts his mask away from his face. It has gone back to being lipless and sunken, but Credence is even closer than before. He can see the shape of every tooth in Graves’ jaw.

“You must be joking,” Graves says. 

“Your eyes,” Credence says. “The most frightening part of the Phantom is his eyes.”

The illusion melts away, so that Credence is left face to face with Percival Graves. He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword to keep his hand from trembling. Graves has a mouth that makes Credence think of paintings he saw in Italy. His square, handsome face reminds Credence of how large his own nose is and the way his ears stick out. A year ago, in the Punjab region, Credence let a friend of Newt Scamander kiss him on the mouth because Haseen’s heavy brows reminded him of Percival Graves.

He should try to think of something — anything else.

“I suppose I couldn’t commit to being without eyelids,” Graves says. “But at the same time, I can’t imagine actually showing my face in front of all these — pardon my language — fucking leeches.”

Credence opens his mouth.

“Are they so awful?” he asks. He does not look behind him, where Graves stares out at the dance floor and the silvery light of an artificial moon.

“Absolutely,” Graves tells him. “If I did show my face, half of them would say I was someone else pretending to be me. That's how it went last year.”

“I would know it was you, Mr. Graves,” he says. 

It is absolutely the most ridiculous and false thing that Credence has ever said in his life. But he likes the way that Graves looks at him afterwards. His voice didn’t even waver. 

“Oh?” Graves says, his mouth perfectly forming the sound. “Would you?”

Credence looks over at the candelabra. “Maybe I wouldn’t.”

“No,” Graves says. His voice is so firm that Credence’s eyes snap right back to him.

“Señor Zorro is quite the investigator, quite the hero,” he continues, “I’m sure you’d find the villain in your midst.”

Credence blinks. What’s left of the ice skull clinks against his glass when he tries to gesture.

“You’re not a villain,” he says.

“Well,” Graves says, “thank you.”

He presses his skull mask over his heart and offers Credence a slight bow. “You’re too kind.”

“I mean,” Credence says. “I don’t think Erik is a villain.”

That isn’t what Credence meant. Percival Graves probably knows that. But it’s not untrue.

“Not really,” Credence continues. Percival Graves stands up and looks at him. He leaves the sort of watchful silence that once made Credence talk about the way people treated him, the way —

“After all,” Credence says, “he just wants to be loved and he cannot imagine being loved for what he is.”

He chews on his lower lip after he speaks, which certainly isn’t what Don Diego would do. He lifts his drink and takes a sip.

“Because what he is,” Graves says, as though it’s a question, “is a monster.”

“That’s not,” Credence tries to say. He stops for another sip of water, his throat feeling tight and hot.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Yes, he is a monster. He looks and acts like a monster, but… he is also a man. How he acts is shaped by the way he has been treated. It isn’t so simple to say that one knows the truth of a man by looking at him.”

Credence certainly doesn’t. Isn’t that point of his costume?

His face feels hot, especially under his mask. Sweat gathers on his scalp. His breath shakes slightly when he exhales.

“An impassioned argument,” Graves says.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

He looks down into his glass. The skull has melted into a concave shape, like the sliver of a new moon. Then he looks at the glass in Graves’ hand and finds it even emptier than his own. 

“Would you like another glass of…” Credence cannot determine what Percival Graves has been drinking from the last few drops of it.

“Pumpkin soda,” he says. “And yes, I would. Are you offering?”

Credence attempts his best, heroic Zorro smile. “Of course I am.”

Graves smiles back at him. He reaches over to set his glass on the table and pick up his cane. Credence frowns slightly. He sets his glass down only to tuck his sword back behind his sash. He doesn’t think he needs to worry about his hands shaking again. Surely that speech of his — what was he thinking — was the most nerve-wracking thing he could possibly do. He picks up Graves’ empty glass and finds a way to balance both glasses in one hand.

“I don’t think you need to do that,” Graves tells him.

“I don’t want to create more work for someone else,” Credence replies. 

Percival Graves looks at him as though he has never considered that someone will have to come around and collect his glass after he sets it down. In the time that he stares, Credence strides right past him with his sword tapping against his thigh.

The Red Death stalks Credence right to the bar and no one gets in their way.

The barkeep leans over, his face a blank slate of boredom.

“Two pumpkin sodas,” Credence says. “Please.”

Before he can reach into his pocket, a red glove sets two bronze coins on top of the bar. Credence looks over his shoulder at the white skull of Graves’ mask. He frowns.

When Credence looks back, both the empty glasses are gone — as well as the straw Queenie made him.

A different barkeep brings them the pumpkin sodas.

“Excuse me,” Credence says. “May I have my straw back?”

This man only raises an eyebrow at Credence then turns to the woman beside him. Another man crowds in against Credence’s right shoulder, squeezing him out of the way. Credence grabs the glasses in front of him and turns around. He ends up with his nose nearly pressed against the Red Death’s mask. 

Graves steps back.

“Was the straw important?” he asks, as they walk away from the bar.

“A friend made it for me from her hair pin,” Credence says.

“That seems unsanitary,” Graves says. “But I’m sure it won’t be the only hair pin lost this Halloween night.”

The Red Death’s impassive face turns out toward the dance floor, which looks even more wild every time Credence glances at it. Someone hangs upside down from a flying broom and holds someone dressed as a butterfly in their outstretched arms. The pair of pirates zips past again — those Credence recognizes at least. A bat flits by overhead and Credence tilts his chin to watch it go.

When he looks back to Graves, he has taken his mask off. He shows his real face.

Credence holds out the glass in his left hand.

“Thank you,” Graves says.

“You paid for it,” Credence says. “I should thank you.”

Lifting the glass to his lips, Graves says, “Then thank me.”

He takes a sip and Credence watches his mouth, the way his eyes close as he swallows, the movement of his throat. He takes a quick swallow of the drink and finds it sugary sweet and spiced slightly with cinnamon. Despite the orange color, there’s barely any pumpkin taste to it.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“It was my pleasure,” Graves says. “Truly.”

The corner of his shapely mouth rises. Credence takes another drink from his glass. The sharpness of cinnamon climbs up the back of his throat into his nose, threatening to make him sneeze.

“Maybe something stronger for the next round, if you prefer it,” Graves adds.

“You mean alcohol?” Credence asks. He shuts his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth. Of course that’s what he means.

“I don’t drink,” Graves says. “But it’s a party. There’s better things for a handsome, young hero to do than drink soda and argue about No-Maj films.” 

“I don’t drink either,” Credence says. 

Percival Graves raises an eyebrow and something about being doubted has Credence lowering his drink.

“I have a condition,” he says.

“Ah,” Graves says. He nods.

Credence wants to tell Graves that he likes talking with him about films. He wants to tell him that he’s the only one here who actually recognized Credence’s costume, but that fact thrills him so much his chest constricts. Who would have imagined?

“Well,” Graves says, “if you care to join me, I intend to retreat back to the corner where you found me.”

Credence watches him set his mask back into place. He nods without knowing if the man even sees him. People move out of the way when the Red Death approaches. Credence follows a step behind him, careful not to step on his heels or tangle with the end of his cape. Between his collar and the brim of his hat, trim silver hair creeps down the nape of Graves’ neck. 

Only a few feet from the bar, Graves stops. He turns, the empty eyes of his mask peering over his shoulder at Credence.

“You don’t have to walk behind me,” Graves says.

“Oh,” Credence manages to respond.

“People will generally get out of your way when you’re armed,” Graves says, with the Red Death’s mask hiding whatever expression accompanies a statement like that. Credence wishes he knew. He might know what to say in response. Instead, he rests his empty hand to the hilt of his sword.

Graves touches his elbow and Credence looks to the red glove against his black shirt. He looks up and then feels foolish, because the mask offers him nothing at all. 

“Apologies,” Graves says, and his hand leaves Credence’s arm.

But when Graves moves forward, Credence walks beside him rather than behind. No one so much as brushes against Credence’s shoulder. 

Graves must know where he’s headed from the surety of his stride, so Credence takes the opportunity to look at everything around them. That includes, of course, the details of the red lace tied at Graves’ throat and the carved buttons on the cuffs of his coat. 

When they finally return to the corner with the candelabra, the lopsided thing has been knocked to the floor. The wax and broken candles seem to be the obvious result of a fight still ongoing. Well, it might not be a fight, but it’s certainly something.

“Pardon me,” Graves says.

A goblin woman in a sparkling pink dress pins down a human-sized man dressed as a goblin. A bag of fake coins lies scattered amongst the candles.

“Sorry fellas,” the woman says. “This area’s occupied.”

She grabs the man by his exaggerated nose and yanks until he shouts.

Credence glances at Graves from the corner of his eye. But Graves doesn’t move, so Credence doesn’t either. 

“I said, this area’s occupied, boys,” she repeats. “Find some place else to grab each other’s sacks. I gotta learn somebody some sense about how to treat a lady, even when she ain’t some high-class, high-pockets hussy.”

“Good luck with that, ma’am,” Graves says.

Credence actually turns his head to look at him for that. The rigid, white mask of the Red Death turns and looks at him.

“Well,” he says. “You heard her.”

Graves turns his back on the goblin woman and the unfortunate man, but Credence spares them a look over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna rip this charmed-up nose right off your face,” the woman threatens.

“I’m sorry, Tienlim! I ain’t never been sorrier in my life!” the man pleads.

Credence looks away.

“There won’t be many quiet corners left, I’m afraid,” Graves says.

“We could,” Credence begins to say. 

They could go somewhere else. They could leave the party entirely. But the only place Credence can think to go is his room above the bookstore. He cannot imagine the two of them loitering in an automat dressed as they are. Or rather, he can imagine it, but he recognizes a bad idea when it crosses his mind.

“Don’t you have some Señora Pulido to entertain?” Graves asks. 

“No,” Credence says.

“Not even your friend with the hairpin?” Graves asks. If he feels something about that, Credence cannot hear it in his voice. He could be asking about the weather.

“She’s probably still dancing with her friends,” Credence says. 

He continues to look for answers in the blankness of the Red Death’s mask, but also in the different shades of red in lace, collar, waistcoat and coat.

“We’re not involved, if that’s what you’re asking,” he adds. “She’s seeing someone already.”

“Yet someone invited you to this ball,” Graves says. 

Credence’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. If he says that Queenie invited him, well… Credence can already hear the question in his mind: Then why didn’t she invite whoever she’s seeing? He could just say that he got his own invitation, but Credence doesn’t know what sort of questions that might invite. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Then, “Did you bring your Christine?”

Graves laughs. The sound seems to echo out of his mask, a rolling chuckle.

“No,” he says. “There is no Christine for me, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” Credence asks. 

At this, Graves reaches up and lifts his mask away from his face. The corners of his mouth pull his lips into a smile the shape of an archer’s bow — the sort slung over the shoulders of more than one partygoer tonight. 

“Not exactly,” he says. 

Credence bites his tongue to keep from asking, “What does that mean _exactly_?”

Instead, he takes another sip of his drink and Graves mirrors him.

“There’s somewhere we might go,” Graves says. “But I don’t mean to steal you away from the masquerade so early in the night.”

“Is it early?” Credence asks.

“For all of them, certainly,” Graves says. He turns and looks at the dance floor, offering Credence a view of the mole on his cheek.

“They’ll be like this until dawn at least.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Credence says. 

“I agree,” Graves says. He turns back toward Credence with his smile softened.

“Well, if you don’t mind being alone with me,” Graves adds. He holds out the bend of his arm, his bone-white cane in one hand. Credence reaches out and touches the handle first, running his fingers over the curve of the skull and down the curling snake body. 

Graves’ dark eyes follow his hand as Credence puts his fingers against his wrist. It’s barely a hold of any kind and the sudden disappearance lasts less than a blink. But Credence finds his hand clutching Graves’ forearm when the darkness subsides.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez, so this is the chapter that explicitly reference's Burgundians' fic. (Sort of) It is also the chapter that makes a RPDR joke. Oh, and it's also the part where they kiss. Please check the warning increase.

“Where are we?” Credence asks. His eyes climb the towering bookshelves toward a ceiling that seems a hundred feet above his head. Locked boxes, globes, and an assortment of clocks squeeze in between leather-bound volumes so plentiful Credence can’t pick out titles and authors.

“My office,” says Percival Graves. “It’s even smaller than my old one, but that’s to be expected.”

He reaches out and sets his drink on a glass-topped desk without pulling his arm from Credence’s grasp. The mask goes next. Then his extravagant hat with its curling, red feather.

“Pardon me,” Graves says, before tugging on his arm.

Credence jerks his hand back suddenly and clenches it in a fist beside his thigh.

“You can take your mask off, if you want,” Graves says, looking at him.

“I’d like to keep it on,” Credence says. “Please.”

“Credence,” Graves says. 

Credence startles back a step, clutching his drink in his hand. Graves’ eyes narrow for just a moment, the smallest line appearing between his brows.

“You may do whatever you wish,” he continues. He looks away from Credence, then, turning towards his desk as he tucks his cane against his elbow and pulls off his gloves finger by finger. He sets them beside his hat before picking up his drink.

“Thank you,” Credence says, long after the silence has grown strange between them. He takes his hat off out of politeness, at least. At the wave of Graves’ hand, a coat rack snaps out of the side of a bookcase. Another gesture sends both hats — red and black — to hang from it.

“You’re quite welcome,” Graves says without even a glance.

A silver tray with a matching pitcher and cups flies down from a shelf. From some fold in his coat, Graves withdraws a wand. It’s not the one Credence remembers him carrying years ago.

Credence swallows against the dryness in his throat, then remembers he has a bit of soda left. He gulps it down and gets a rush of burning cinnamon against the back of his throat.

Graves taps his wand against the pitcher and Credence watches water pour from the tip of it. At least, he assumes it’s water. The sheen on the silver dulls with frost. Graves pours himself a drink. His hands move with so much purpose as he lifts and then lowers the pitcher, even when he draws the cup to his lips.

His cape moves against his ankles, against buttoned-up spats and red stockings, when he turns. 

“Would you like some?” Graves asks.

Credence can still feel cinnamon in his throat, so he only nods. 

Graves sets his own cup down to pour one for Credence. When he holds it out, Credence leans forward to take it. If Credence weren’t wearing gloves, their fingers might brush. Credence’s heart pounds like it’s trying to beat it’s way out of the exposed portion of his chest.

“Thank you,” Credence says. His voice croaks out of his dry throat, but Graves only nods.

He realizes he’s holding both an empty glass and this cup, so he sets aside the soda glass.

“A pleasure,” Graves tells him. “It is a pleasure just to see you, Credence. Also a bit of a surprise, I must admit. I thought… never mind.”

“I was surprised to see you also,” Credence says, before the silence between them can grow uncomfortable. “And surprised that you like ‘The Phantom.’ I thought witches didn’t like that kind of thing.”

“I didn’t used to,” Graves tells him. “I never had the time or inclination, but I had a lot of free time in ’27. While at the same time, I didn’t particularly feel like spending time in wizarding society. Must I say why?”

Credence shakes his head and then drinks from his cup of water so he doesn’t have to speak. Graves nods. He turns his face away from Credence again, looking at the books along the walls and then down at his desk.

“The silents aren’t so different from some wizarding books,” Graves says. “And there are so many, I bought a few to watch at home. The mysteries, the horror, those are almost… I mean, it’s magical enough.”

He waves his hand. “‘The Phantom’ is excellent, I think. I enjoyed ‘London After Midnight’ so much I contemplated finding out if Lon had a witch in his family lines.”

Credence laughs and that, for some reason, causes Graves to look at him again.

“I would believe it,” he says, to explain himself.

“I’m afraid I don’t watch too many adventure films,” Graves says.

Credence glances at the bottom of his cup of water. “I’ve actually never seen it. I just like the stories.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,” Graves says.

“I did see ‘Phantom,’” Credence says. He looks up.

“A witch I met in France likes to collect things, non-magical things,” he adds. “She thought the film was funny because it’s set in Paris.”

“You’ve been to Paris?” Graves asks, with his eyebrows just slightly raised.

“Yes,” Credence says. “And other places.”

Graves blinks, but his eyebrows don’t come down.

“Good,” he says. “I hope all those places treated you well.”

“Yes,” Credence says, thinking of the underground theater where he watched “The Phantom of the Opera” and ate chunks of sugar shaped like gemstones until he thought he might vomit. In his mind, he can hear Colette’s shrieking laughter skipping off the limestone walls.

“That’s good to hear,” Graves says. “After how poorly New York treated you.”

Credence bites the insides of his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from Graves’ dark eyes.

“I spent about a year thinking you were dead,” Graves says. “So I suppose it’s good just to see you. Good to know you’re doing well.”

He keeps moving his cane in his bare hand, twisting it along the coil of the snake’s body.

“Are you doing well, Mr. Graves?” Credence asks.

Credence watches his gaze lower just slightly, as though he has to look away in order to answer.

“Yes, I suppose,” Graves says. He lifts his cup to his mouth and closes his eyes when he drinks.

“You needn’t be so formal,” he adds. “Percival is fine.”

Credence nods without looking away from Graves’ face.

“Percival,” he says, just to try it. The corners of Percival Graves’ mouth lift just slightly.

“If you wanted to see the ‘Zorro’ reels,” Percival says. “I’m sure I could track them down. I made some good connections when I was in the habit of watching so many myself. I’d dare say I have a collection not unlike your Parisian friend.”

“I’m sure yours is much bigger,” Credence says. 

Percival looks at him for a moment, then smiles broadly and huffs a laugh strong enough to make him bow his head. 

“What?” Credence asks. “She only had two or three films for her projector.”

“I do have more than three,” Percival says, still smiling.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Credence,” he adds. “It’s all felt a bit like a… an illusion since I saw you at the bar with Goldstein. I suppose I knew. She never seemed distraught over you at all. She was always getting letters and trinkets from around the globe. Of course, I can’t blame Tina for keeping you a secret. A handsome young man like you? In this city? She wouldn't tell a soul about you, certainly not me.”

The smile slips off Percival’s face. He draws his jacket back with one hand and rests it against his hip. Credence feels his eyes being drawn all the way down Percival’s legs, but he glances back up to Percival’s mouth before he might be discovered.

“No one would,” Percival says. “Even if I wanted.”

Credence’s heart pounds exactly the same way it did the time he hid away in the backroom of the store at the sound of Percival’s voice. When the man looks at him, he makes himself meet Percival’s eyes. The heels of Percival’s red shoes make them just about equal in stature. 

He takes a step forward, just to see whether he’s taller or not. He thinks of all the ways he has changed since Percival Graves last saw him, whenever that was. How many months has Credence wondered if they had ever really met at all?

“Credence?” Percival says. His dark eyes search Credence’s face. How much does his mask disguise if Percival still recognized him? It can’t be much at all. Why did he think it did?

Credence reaches up and puts one gloved hand against Percival’s cheek, then wishes he had taken the gloves off. He takes another step forward and sets his cup aside on the desk. Even when Credence holds Percival’s face between his palms, Percival doesn’t speak. He looks into Credence’s eyes until Credence closes them.

Face tilted slightly to the left, Credence leans in close enough to feel his lips press against Percival’s. He feels as much as he hears Percival’s sharp intake of breath.

It makes Credence pause.

He pulls away and his eyes open wide. Percival stares back at him just as wide-eyed.

Was this the wrong thing to do? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking his hands away.

Percival’s shoulders sink when he exhales. His lips part and Credence wants to kiss him again, wants to chase down the last touch of cinnamon and sugar that might be within that pink mouth.

Credence forces himself to look away.

“Illusion was too strong a word,” Percival says. “This has to be a dream.”

When Credence looks again, Percival has his hand against his lips. He takes it away and reaches out for Credence. Those same fingertips brush Credence’s cheek. His thumb traces the edge of Credence’s mask. Underneath the fabric, Credence’s skin feels flushed with blood. His pulse throbs even in the roots of his hair.

He opens his mouth to reassure Percival that all of this is real, but his voice comes out as only a soft whine. He falls forward into another kiss. His open mouth fits over and against Percival’s parted lips. Credence follows the curves of that archer’s bow with his tongue. The very end of Percival’s tongue brushes against his own. 

Credence pulls back again, just to look Percival in the eye. Then he shuts his eyes tight and kisses Percival fiercely, with enough passion that it almost frightens him. But he has all that quite under control, or else he wouldn’t be back in New York. He wouldn’t even be able to use his magic. 

And Credence uses magic now — to get his gloves off, so he can press his bare hands to the back of Percival’s neck and draw him deeper into this kiss. Percival’s hand moves to cup his skull — and the knot that holds his mask in place. Credence feels him tugging at it as he meets Percival’s lower lip with his teeth. He breathes harshly into Percival’s open mouth. His nose presses hard against Percival’s cheek.

The mask comes off in a single, swift pull. Credence doesn’t know where it goes, only that Percival’s hand runs through his sweat-damp hair. He makes a sound that borders on the obscene with only Percival’s tongue to quiet him. 

When Percival pulls away, Credence finds himself tilting his chin and beckoning with his whole body for another kiss.

“I want to see you,” Percival says, so close that his lips brush wetly against Credence’s.

He blinks and finds Percival looking at him with unfathomably dark eyes, darker than any night and deeper than any sea. Credence’s breath shakes his whole frame. He cannot look away even as Percival steps back and his gaze moves up and down along the lines of Credence’s body. Percival shifts further away and Credence’s hands fall back to his sides.

“I never imagined you’d have shorter hair when I saw you again,” Percival says. His smile creases the skin between his cheeks and his eyes. Credence reaches up and smooths down the short, dark hair left in disarray by his mask.

“When I came back, I didn’t even have eyebrows,” Credence says. He can laugh about it now, and his laughter makes Percival’s smile broaden until Credence sees his teeth.

“I am certain you looked handsome even then,” Percival tells him.

“I did not,” Credence says. “I looked like a character played by Lon Chaney.”

Percival laughs hard enough to tip his head back slightly. Grey stubble covers the underside of his chin and Credence wonders how it would feel against his lips.

“Well,” Percival says, idly moving his cane against the floor, “now you look like a character played by Valentino.”

“I prefer Fairbanks,” Credence says.

“Of course,” Percival says. He nods before taking a moment to fix the cuff of his coat. 

Credence slowly uncurls his fingers and then closes his hands back into fists. He repeats the motion, trying to shake the phantom sensation of Percival’s clothing from his skin. It’s impossible. He licks his lips and traces the line of Percival’s jaw with his gaze.

“I suppose I should let you return to the masquerade,” Percival says. “But I would like to make a date with you — perhaps for dinner and a feature?”

A smile lingers on Percival’s handsome face, just the curve of his lips. The creases beside his eyes have deepened in the past years, as though they were not already enough to tie Credence’s insides into knots.

“No,” he says.

“No?” Percival repeats. His smile fades away.

Panicked, Credence leans back on his heels. Then he steps forward. 

“No, I don’t want to go back to the party,” he says, reaching for Percival’s hand. He folds both his hands around it, pressing his thumbs urgently against the bones beneath Percival’s skin.

The blade of his sword clanks like a dropped frying pan against the floor when Credence goes down on one knee. He watches Percival’s eyebrows lower, casting a shadow over his eyelids.

“Credence,” Percival says.

“Please,” he says, and draws Percival’s hand to his mouth. He shuts his eyes and bows his head until his nose presses against Percival’s skin. He kisses him, his knuckles and his veins. He kisses his hand right up to the cuff of his jacket. Each red button grins at him, a toothy skull.

“Let’s go somewhere together,” Credence says. “Now. Anywhere.”

“Is that an invitation?” Percival asks. 

Credence looks up. “Yes.”

Percival sets aside his cane and it stands on its own against the floor. He reaches down to place his hand on top of Credence’s, but Credence turns his palms such that he can hold both of Percival’s hands at once. Percival’s fingers squeeze his own.

Credence feels Percival pulling him up and he gets to his feet as quickly as he can without falling. Percival brings his hands to his chest so that Credence’s knuckles rest beneath the knot of his cravat.

“In a film,” Percival says, “this is the part where you might kiss me.”

“Yes,” Credence says, before he does. Or before Percival kisses him.

Their mouths meet, which is all that matters. Credence’s tongue slips against Percival’s lower lip. Percival nips at the end of it, his teeth sending a shock down Credence’s throat all the way to his belly.

He pulls his hands out of Percival’s grasp so that he can hold Percival’s face instead. Their chests press together instead of their palms. Percival’s arms slide around his waist and pull him so close that Credence feels the buttons on Percival’s coat digging into his skin through his shirt. The lace of Percival’s cravat brushes against Credence’s bare collarbones.

So deeply does Credence try to kiss Percival that he can taste the pulse beneath his tongue. He breathes because Percival breathes into him. 

When Percival pulls away, he gasps. Credence pants like he’s been racing. His chest heaves against Percival’s. He runs his hand up the back of Percival’s head, feeling well-groomed hair against his palm and running his fingers through it. His nerves, all those strings of white tissue running through him, feel like sparkling stars.

“I don’t want to act rashly,” Percival says. 

“I think I would like that,” Credence says, “if you acted rashly with me.”

“Well then,” Percival says. He kisses the corner of Credence’s lips, then the stubble of his cheek. Percival’s teeth scrape against the edge of Credence’s jaw and he merely tilts his head to accommodate. An open mouth kisses down the length of Credence’s neck before Percival makes his way back up with his tongue alone.

“That was an interesting noise,” Percival says, his voice a whisper against Credence’s cheek.

“I’m not sure I could make it again if I tried,” Credence admits.

Percival hums. “It seems worth investigating.”

Credence looks around him at the bookshelves that close in Percival’s office. He prefers this to the busy, crowded ballroom of the masquerade. He can’t imagine kissing Percival in that corner by the lopsided candelabra.

However, this is where Percival works.

“Perhaps not here,” Credence says to him.

His arms loosen their hold on Credence, so that there’s some space between their bodies. Percival looks at Credence.

“I’m happy to accept your invitation,” he says. “Anywhere you want me, I am yours.”

Credence cannot even blink. “Oh.”

Then he thinks of the only place he has to take Percival: his room above the shop, with a bed just big enough for Credence to sleep on without his feet sticking off the edge and stacks of magazines, newspapers, and books piled on every standing surface. 

“I’d like to take you home with me,” Credence says, “but I’m afraid it would be disappointing for a man of your standing.”

Percival raises an eyebrow. 

“It may surprise you,” he says, “since I am an old bachelor, but I was once a young bachelor and have some understanding of how one lives alone at twenty-four. You do live alone?”

“Twenty-five,” Credence says. 

“Oh?” Percival asks.

“My birthday is in October,” he says. “At least, I think it is.”

Percival smiles. “I’d be remiss not to get you something then.”

“Oh no,” Credence says. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to do anything.”

But Percival keeps that smile upon his face as he lets go of Credence’s waist entirely. He sends the pitcher and cups away with a wave of his hand and fetches his hat off the hook with another.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” he says, reaching out and pulling his cane out of its perfect stillness.

Credence looks around. He doesn’t even know where his mask has gone. But he closes his eyes and thinks of his reflection in the mirror above the mantel at the Goldsteins’ apartment. He murmurs the words for the spell softly under his breath, a bit embarrassed that Percival doesn’t need to say anything at all to do magic.

The fabric falls into his open hand and, a moment later, his hat lands crookedly on his head.

When he opens his eyes, Percival isn’t smiling. But Credence isn’t certain what the expression on his face means, whether it is good or bad. Percival’s tongue flashes out against his lower lip and he pulls it in between his teeth.

“If you tell me where we’re going, I could apparate the both of us,” Percival says, holding out his arm for Credence.

“I can do it,” Credence says. He steps forward and puts his hand on Percival’s elbow, sliding along until their arms are linked.

“Alright,” Percival says.

He smiles again. “Take me away then, Credence.”

Rather than feeling as though he’s tearing into pieces, Credence feels only as though he’s pulling Percival along. They are in the darkness together, slipping through some invisible space between bricks and street lamps. It’s so dark.

The alley down the block from Grims Book Store seems bright as noon compared to wherever it is Credence goes when he’s moving from one place to another with magic.

Percival blinks at him, his reds looking so bright in the dim light from a lamp across the way.

“It’s never felt like that before,” he says.

“Is that bad?” Credence asks.

“No, no,” Percival says, quickly. He puts a hand on Credence’s forearm and squeezes before pulling away.

“I suppose I haven’t gone sidealong in some time,” he says. 

They walk out of the alley together, which is somewhat nostalgic. Credence finds himself smiling as he digs for the key in his pocket.

“Oh, you live near Grims,” Percival says, looking up ahead. “Seraphina swears that old bird Beatrice could find a spellbook written by the Morrigan themselves, if you had need of it.”

“And the money,” Credence says.

He keeps an eye on Percival’s face as they stop in front of the store and Credence heads up the steps to the door. Credence opens the shop and looks to reassure the painting hung beside the door that he isn’t robbing the place, but the one-eyed man and his raven are not within the frame.

“She must still be out for the night,” he says.

“Do you work here as well?” Percival asks, as he steps inside.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“And how long has that been going on?” he asks.

Credence locks the door again from the inside and then tucks his key away in his pocket.

“Only for a few months,” Credence says.

“Ah,” Percival says. Then he nods and lifts his hat off his head. “Alright, I see.”

“What do you see?” Credence asks. “All the lights are off in here.”

“I see that I’ve only missed the opportunity to visit you for a few months,” Percival says. “Rather than the full two years I imagined.”

The gas lights in the store burn softly when Credence asks them to, so that he can safely lead Percival through all the shelves toward the back door.

“I’m on the top floor,” Credence says. “It’s a bit of a climb.”

“I don’t mind,” Percival says, though the stairs are terribly steep. Credence can hear the brush of his cape and knows the stairs are too shallow for his heels to touch any of the steps. Credence goes up almost sideways to keep from slipping.

Credence holds his breath by habit as they pass the door at each floor. He opens his own door at the top of the stairs with one hand against the frame to quiet the rattle of the wood. The only sound from Percival is the soft brush of his cape moving against his coat as Credence lets him inside.

Credence shuts the door as carefully as he opened it, then turns to look at Percival.

“Are you concerned about discretion?” Percival asks, hushed.

“Well, I’m not certain what Mrs. Grimsditch will think, but she is always encouraging me to make more friends in the city,” Credence says. “I think she worries I’m leading Tina on.”

“Are you?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says. He frowns to match Percival’s sly little grin.

“She’s a dear friend,” Credence says. “And so is her sister.”

“Is that Queenie from the basement?” Percival asks. “I mean, the typing pool — permits, records, that sort of thing.”

He waves his hand to encompass whatever it is he thinks Queenie Goldstein does at her job. Credence would be offended on her behalf, except that it benefits her very much to be beneath notice. Certainly, more people would care who she brought to parties and where she spent her free time if she wasn’t.

“Yes,” he says, after a pause.

Percival doesn’t smirk quite so after that. He looks around in a way that makes Credence very aware of how little he has — and how much of it currently consists of magazines and letters.

“Would you like something to drink?” Credence asks. “I have tea and coffee.”

As he walks over to the cabinet, he lifts Haseen’s latest letter and Colette’s collection of photos of nude sculptures from the table.

“Tea, perhaps,” Percival says. “Unless you want me up all night.”

Credence folds the letter around the photos and tucks both behind a jar of sour cherry jam. He is likely forgetting something even more incriminating. Colette particularly enjoys sending him photographs of art that has been deemed obscene. She sent him a whole novel of obscenity, but Credence thankfully cannot read French much at all. Something about an eye?

“Maybe I do,” Credence says. The clock hanging on the wall, one of the many pieces of Mrs. Grimsditch’s furniture, says it is not quite ten.

“In that case, coffee may be necessary,” Percival says. “And perhaps a silencing charm? I don’t mean to be too forward.”

Credence takes out the percolator and his jar of coffee without turning to look at Percival. Perhaps his confidence will return after he gets the stove lit. It takes three tries with words and hand gestures, but it's still easier than using matches.

He stands up straight and lets out a breath that feels like it’s been held inside him since Percival teased him about the Goldsteins.

“That wouldn’t be too forward,” he says.

He turns to find Percival sitting at his table with his hat in front of him. His cane leans against the edge, almost brilliantly white under the light from overhead.

“Alright,” Percival says, producing that unfamiliar wand from his pocket. The charm seems to shimmer in the air and fall like fresh snow to the floor. Will magic ever be so easy for Credence?

He turns back to the percolator, filling it with water and measuring out coffee grounds. Before he sets it on the stove, he looks again at Percival over his shoulder. The man leans in his chair as though he’s trying to see between the curtains Credence uses to hide his bed on the other side of the room. His eyes widen when he looks over and finds Credence watching him.

Before he sits down at the table himself, Credence unties his sash and finds a place for his sword and hat. 

“I could conjure you up a hat rack,” Percival offers.

“If you want,” Credence tells him, but he doesn’t make any moves. His wand has already been tucked away.

“It’s a spot better than how I remember living at twenty-five,” Percival says, looking at Credence’s cabinets.

“Really?” Credence asks.

“Well, you’ve got a curtain,” Percival says. 

Credence looks over at the curtain. When he turns back, he finds Percival’s eyes on him from across the table.

“Credence,” Percival says. “I don’t know what you want from me past this night.”

He touches the brim of his hat with one hand, both his elbows on the table. A book about the magical traditions of nomadic peoples in the East rests beside his arm.

“I’m not even certain what you want from me now,” Percival adds.

“We have all night to find out,” Credence says. 

He reaches out and takes Percival hand in his own to keep him from tearing up the fabric of his hat. A red fiber has been caught between his nail and cuticle already, Credence notices. He puts his fingers between Percival’s knuckles and holds fast.

“That we do,” Percival says. “But what comes after that?”

“Breakfast,” Credence says. 

The huff of breath from Percival might be a laugh. He smiles.

“And then,” Credence says, “you said something about dinner and a feature.”

“Yes, I did,” Percival says.

“I think I would enjoy that,” Credence says.

The smile on Percival’s face grows until Credence feels compelled to return it.

“Something with Fairbanks, right?” Percival asks.

“I think it should be your choice,” Credence says. “At least the first time.”

“That’s quite a lot of responsibility on my shoulders,” Percival says. “But I will happily accept it. Should I call on you here at Grims?”

“I don’t see why not,” Credence says. 

Behind him, the percolator bubbles. The smell of brewing coffee begins to fill the room. Percival’s eyes move from his hat to their joined hands and then up to Credence’s face. 

It’s not as though Mrs. Grimsditch doesn’t receive all of Credence’s correspondence — the weekly letters from Haseen and Colette, as well the occasional note from Severin, Louis, and Minh. In addition, she gave him this room and his job because of his close relationship with Newt. No doubt she would imply Credence is leading him on as well if he weren’t everywhere but New York City. Apparently, Newt has been unable to receive a visa and is now threatening to sneak in by mail. Credence expects to receive a suitcase in the post any day.

“It will give Beatrice something new to gossip about,” he adds.

Percival sighs. He lifts his free hand to his chin and rubs it.

Credence unlaces his fingers from Percival’s and pulls back his hand.

“Does that bother you?” Credence asks.

Percival blinks. “Not at all.”

Over Credence’s shoulder, the percolator goes quiet to let him know the coffee has finished brewing. He gets up from his chair and takes it off the stove, but leaves the fire going to heat the room. 

“If you’re willing to throw your lot in with mine,” Percival says, while Credence takes down a pair of mismatched cups, “then I am more than willing to do the same.”

Credence smiles as he pours a cup of coffee for himself and one for Percival.

“Do you take cream or sugar?” he asks.

“Black is fine,” Percival tells him.

The nicer coffee cup is for Percival, while Credence prefers the one with a slight chip on the handle where he can rest his thumb. 

“Thank you,” Percival says.

He watches Credence take two cubes of sugar out of the half-empty container, wedged up against a stack of beginner spell books on the table. Even with stirring, Credence feels the grit of the sugar on his first sip. He licks his lips afterwards.

“Why did you come back to New York?” Percival asks. 

Credence hums and takes another sip of his sweetened coffee.

“I mean,” Percival says, with his arms folded against the table, “you could be in Paris right now. You could be anywhere.”

“I could,” Credence agrees. 

Swallowing down his black coffee without even blinking, Percival sets his cup down and leans forward. 

“If it’s not any of my business,” he says, “you can tell me so.”

Credence rests his cup in the curve of his hand and rubs his thumb against the chipped handle.

Every glittering light and grimy street corner of Paris, every loud and sweltering night in the forest outside Dasuya, every tow-headed child he caught giggling on the street beneath Newt’s Diagon Alley flat told Credence that he must go back. New York City was the only home he had ever known — not the church he’d blown down, of course, but the sidewalks where he could hear a hundred different languages in a single day and the shuttered buildings standing in the shadows of half-finished towers. He owed something to Tina Goldstein and to the girl he’d called his sister. Perhaps, he even had some unsettled debts with himself.

“I want to be in New York,” he says. 

So he is, and now Percival Graves sits at his table drinking coffee. Wonders never cease.

“That’s probably a better reason than most,” Percival says.

“Why are you still in New York?” Credence asks, with his hands around his coffee cup.

Percival tilts his head back slightly and looks up at the ceiling. With one hand, he reaches up and rubs his earlobe. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence says. “That was rude.”

“No,” Percival says, firmly. “It’s a good question. Just one that deserves a bit of thought. I usually say something flip about how this city is my home and the greatest on earth — but in America alone there’s cities like St. Louis and San Francisco. Hell, compared to Paris, even MACUSA’s Halloween masquerade is probably a bore.”

“It’s not,” Credence says.

Percival looks down into his cup.

“I suppose it would feel like giving up,” he says. “I’m too stubborn to go away quietly and die, even if no wizard in this city wants to see my face.”

Sipping his coffee, Credence speaks into the cup more than to Percival. “I want to see your face.”

“Well,” Percival says, the corner of his mouth lifting, “then my stubbornness has paid off.”

Credence smiles and hides his mouth behind his cup. The warmth in him could just be the coffee, but he knows better. Unfortunately, the sweetness of sugar on his tongue doesn’t help him think of anything sweet to say. He’s happy to be here and he’s happy to have Percival here with him. But rather than say anything at all, he finishes his coffee swallow by swallow.

“May I take your cup,” Credence says as he gets up from the table.

“Of course,” Percival says, moving it to the edge of the round table.

“You know,” he adds, “I thought coffee brewed on a stove would taste different.”

Credence stops with his hand suspended in the air between them. “You’ve never had coffee that wasn’t made with magic?”

Percival raises his eyebrows and shrugs. He holds his cup out for Credence. Their bare fingers brush as Credence takes it. He expects that; he doesn’t startle. But then Percival puts a hand around his wrist. Credence’s eyes get a bit wider, but he does not drop either cup. 

Percival pulls on him gently and Credence easily leans over the table with its wooden edge against the side of his thigh. A book slides off the top of a pile and tumbles down to the floor with a smack against the wood. Percival’s mouth is warm as coffee and Credence sighs into it. The sourness of black coffee only serves to remind Credence that this is real. It feels too perfect, too happy, too magical, but it tastes like unsweetened coffee.

“Care to show me what’s behind the curtain?” Percival murmurs against his lips. 

Credence pulls away and opens his eyes slowly. “It’s only my bed.”

“I guessed as much,” Percival says.

“Let me put the percolator away first,” Credence says.

He doesn’t always trust his _scourgify_ s, but this time the percolator gleams with polish. The cups shine under the overhead light as he puts them back in the cupboard. And on the first try, at that.

“That didn’t take long,” Percival says.

He sits at Credence’s table with one elbow propped up and the other against the back of his chair. His coat and cape spread out around him, falling in folds over the chair where he sits with his legs spread. Credence takes in the red breeches and red stockings, which reveal the shape of Percival’s legs completely. How do those stockings even stay up? Credence imagines garters, as for socks, but surely he would be able to see those with the way the breeches look painted onto Percival’s body.

He lifts a hand over his own eyes, because he cannot force himself to look up the way he ought to.

“Credence?” Percival says. 

“You wanted to see my bed,” Credence says. He takes his hand away and tries to look at Percival’s face. His pink lips are somehow transfixing.

“Only if you wanted to show it to me,” Percival says.

“I think I do,” Credence says. 

“Alright then,” Percival says. He stands up and unclasps his cape from his throat, lifting his cravat out of the way with one hand. He drapes it over the back of his chair so that half of it spills over the floor. The coat goes after the cape, revealing the loose sleeves of Percival’s shirt. It makes his shoulders look broad and his arms, even broader.

“It’s rather warm with the stove on,” Percival says, with his fingers at the knot of his cravat.

“I can put it out,” Credence says.

“No, no,” Percival replies. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Do you?”

“No,” Credence says.

He flexes his hands against the sides of his thighs. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth to speak. The distance between him and Percival could be closed in two steps — or perhaps just one. Credence slinks around the edge of the table and reaches for the sugar dish. He takes a cube out with his fingers and pops it into his mouth. It cracks between his teeth.

“Isn’t that too sweet?” Percival asks.

“No,” Credence says. His mouth waters around the sugar, melting it as he moves his tongue inside his mouth. He swallows.

“You taste like black coffee,” Credence says. 

When he looks at Percival directly, Credence finds him with the collar of his shirt open and the fabric of his cravat in his hands.

“I prefer it with sugar,” Credence says.

Percival nods. He folds the fabric loosely and reaches over a smaller pile of books to place it at the top of the tallest one on the table. It sits there at the highest point, brilliant as a flag.

Credence licks the sugar off his molars before he moves close to Percival. He looks at the bare skin of his neck as much as he does his pink mouth and dark eyes. When he reaches out, he goes for Percival’s throat and Percival leans into his touch. They kiss, and Percival puts an arm around him so that his hand rests right in the center of Credence’s back. He lets his body curve rather than press his hips against Percival’s waistcoat. Credence licks at Percival’s lips and then his teeth, the smoothness of the inside of his mouth. 

Percival kisses him back. He groans softly when Credence’s teeth catch his lower lip and pull it into his mouth. The taste of sugar and coffee fades to nothing, but Credence keeps kissing Percival right there beside the table.

“The bed,” Credence says, between rapid breaths.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Behind the curtain.”

Percival’s arm falls away from him. Credence steps away from Percival, but reaches out for his hand. He counts every backward step from the table to the curtain. 

“It’s not that big,” Credence says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Percival says. “Being in close quarters with you is… quite a thrill.”

Credence smiles so wide it surprises him. He feels a twinge in his cheek and looks away from Percival, worrying that he looks crazed. He draws back the curtain carefully, not wanting to yank on the metal washline it hangs from.

“You make your bed,” Percival says, ignoring the books piled along the windowsill and the open trunk full of Credence’s clothing.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Of course I do.”

“Stars above,” Percival says. “I’ve got magic and I could never be bothered to make my bed when I lived alone.”

“Well,” Credence says. “I have certain standards.”

He sits down, still holding onto Percival’s hand, and wonders if he could shut the lid of the trunk with magic. Should he even bother? 

Percival steps close enough that his knees bracket Credence’s. He only has to lift his hand and gesture for the curtain to pull shut behind his back. His hand comes down on Credence’s shoulder, thumb brushing the open collar of his shirt.

“Do I meet your standards?” Percival asks in a soft voice.

Credence tilts his head back to see Percival’s face, but something about the look in his eye leaves him speechless. His chest feels tight, constricted. This shirt only has buttons up to the middle of his breastbone, but he still feels choked by it.

“Yes,” he manages to say.

Percival’s fingers brush upward along the side of Credence’s throat to find the edge of his jaw and rub the short, sharp hairs growing in there. Percival wets his lips with his tongue as he leans down over Credence. He kisses Credence once, pulls away, and then kisses him again.

Their mouths part again and Percival puts his knee against the bed beside Credence’s thigh. He kisses Credence again and then again and again, short and shallow. 

Credence puts his arms around Percival’s waist and pulls him close in hopes of deepening the kisses. Percival pushes him back against his own bed, or perhaps Credence pulls him down on top of him. Either way, Percival opens his mouth, and Credence kisses him until he loses his breath. 

He stares up at the ceiling and tries just to breathe properly as Percival begins kissing his jaw. The sharpness of Percival’s teeth makes the hair raise along Credence’s arms. His own pulse pounds like a drum inside his ears. When Percival’s mouth finds the tender spot right under the corner of Credence’s jaw, his chest shakes from the sound he makes. He turns his head; Percival kisses his way down Credence’s neck. His fingers go to the buttons of Credence’s shirt and begin to open it even further than it already is. 

Percival’s hand slips in beneath the fabric and against Credence’s bare skin. Credence pulls on the black fabric tied around Percival’s waist until it comes loose.

“I haven’t,” Credence says. He stops himself with a gasping breath.

Percival hums against the side of his neck.

“I haven’t even taken my shoes off,” he says. 

He feels more than hears Percival’s quiet laughter against his skin. Percival rubs the tip of his nose against that tender spot under Credence’s jaw before he raises his head.

“I suppose we both ought to do that,” Percival says.

He pushes himself up slowly, so that for a moment Credence can see down the open front of his loose shirt. Dark curls reach to the hollow of his throat, looser than Credence’s own and flecked with grey. Percival gets all the way to standing as graceful as a cat, Credence thinks, and just as easily sits down beside him on the bed to pick up his foot. 

Credence struggles onto his elbows before he can even sit up. He drops Percival’s belt, if that’s what it is, onto the bed.

His fingers feel too clumsy on his shoelaces, but he gets both his shoes off before Percival has even finished with the buttons on his spats. Credence watches Percival finish unbuttoning the first one and sweep it off to the side. He can see the bones of Percival’s ankle under his stocking, above the curve of his red shoe. How are women’s legs considered so scandalous when men’s legs can look this fine?

Rather than put words to this thought, Credence bends in half to tuck his shoes under the bed. When he sits up, Percival is at work unbuttoning the other spat.

“This is all a lot more work without magic,” Percival says. “I can’t imagine how long it would take me to get it all on.”

“Without magic, you might have to dress more plainly,” Credence says.

Percival looks over at him with a fine line between his eyebrows, as though the suggestion pains him.

“It would be a tragedy,” Credence adds.

The line deepens into a furrow as Percival frowns at him.

“I mean that,” Credence says. Hesitantly he reaches out and brushes a hand over Percival’s embroidered waistcoat. He doesn’t know the fabrics, but he knows that it’s beautiful. It feels smooth beneath his fingers, with red thread stitched into roses against the red fabric.

“Oh,” Percival says, and Credence leans in to kiss him quickly on the mouth before his frown has completely melted away.

When Credence pulls back again, he lets his gaze slip away from Percival’s dark eyes to his own hand upon Percival’s shoulder. The autumn wind has chafed his knuckles pink, but the vibrant red of Percival’s clothes makes Credence look bloodlessly pale.

“I could help you undress,” he says, keeping his voice hushed.

“I’d accept that help,” Percival says, just as quiet.

Credence moves his hands to the buttons of Percival’s waistcoat. The engravings on each encourage him to touch each one a bit longer than necessary. The work goes slowly. He doesn’t pull back the stiff, heavy fabric until he’s undone every button. Then the loose shirt underneath falls into the space Credence creates. Percival pulls one arm free and then Credence takes the whole thing off him. He holds at it in one hand for a moment, staring.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” Percival says. “I know that must sound ridiculous, but…”

Credence looks up to see Percival pause in taking off his shoe. He waves one hand in the air as though casting a spell. The corner of his mouth lifts when he catches Credence’s eye. “You must understand, it’s not often handsome men try to bring me home from parties.” 

“Do you go to many parties?” Credence asks.

“No,” Percival says.

Once his shoes are off, Credence hands over his waistcoat without a word. Percival folds it carefully by hand and then sends it away by magic. Credence leans to the side just slightly to catch a glimpse of Percival’s red costume tucked into the open trunk alongside Credence’s everyday clothing.

“It’s only temporary,” Percival says. “I promise I won’t leave anything behind.”

He could, if he wanted. Credence wouldn’t mind at all if he found a bright red button or a whole stocking while dressing in the morning. He doesn’t know how to say that any more than he knows how to tell Percival that he’s never done this sort of thing before. He certainly doesn’t go to enough parties to be bringing anyone home from them. 

Haseen, for example, was far more interested in books than parties. For all that Colette calls him beautiful and adored, compares him to thunderstorms and works of art, they spent all their time amongst the bones of Paris fully dressed and buttoned up. But Credence is not so inexperienced as to bring up these foreign strangers when he has Percival Graves right in front of him. It would be like speaking to the moon in the sky about a candle burning in a city far away.

Rather than say anything at all, Credence leans in close and kisses Percival again. Percival gathers him close with an arm around his waist. His hand slips inside Credence’s shirt, under the fabric and against his bare skin. Credence shivers even though Percival’s hands are perfectly warm. 

Percival’s lips against his own distract him, but Credence grabs at his loose shirt with both hands. He pulls the fabric up Percival’s back and when Percival pulls away, Credence does his best to get the whole thing off. He knocks a lock of hair loose from Percival’s usual style, which has already been badly treated by a large hat and mask worn all night. Percival doesn’t bother to fix his hair. He is too busy pulling open as many of the buttons on Credence’s shirt as he can.

“Weren’t you cold?” Percival asks, looking at Credence’s bare chest.

“No,” Credence says. “Weren’t you warm?”

“Cooling charms,” Percival says. “The necessity of fashion.”

Credence smiles before he says, “Then warming charms are the necessity of dashing heroes.”

“I have never been so grateful for warming charms,” Percival says, with his chin tipped down and his eyes on Credence’s body rather than his face. 

Credence opens the buttons at his cuffs before he slides his shirt off his shoulders and down his back and arms. He tries to swallow away the tightness in his throat, but just feels cold down to his stomach. Percival looks him over and Credence searches his face for… for anything. He can’t even fully appreciate the view he has of Percival’s body. His breath shakes his ribs on every exhale.

Percival’s tongue touches his upper lip. His throat moves as he swallows. His hand reaches out and though they’ve been touching quite intimately, Credence leans away. Percival looks up.

“May I?” he asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, and his voice comes out as strangled as expected. He clears his throat.

“Yes,” he repeats.

Percival’s fingers brush against his throat and down the edge of his collarbone to his shoulder. He touches Credence lightly, the barest suggestion of a caress. Credence flexes his fingers, his hands trembling slightly. He isn’t cold, but his nipples harden into little points just from Percival’s hand running down the side of his ribs.

“You’re so much lovelier than I ever imagined,” Percival says. 

He shakes his head and then looks up at Credence. 

“I’m sorry, I wish I knew a better way to say it,” he adds. “I want you to believe me.”

“I believe you,” Credence says.

“Do you?” Percival asks. His eyebrows rise. His eyes grow wide and hopeful.

Belief is just a matter of practice, but Credence rarely gets to practice on a thought so pleasant as this. Percival has tried to imagine him unclothed. He has tried, and what he sees now is _lovelier_.

Credence swallows again, this time against the overwhelming lightness that tries to climb out of his chest. He leans toward Percival until their foreheads nearly touch. The side of his nose is against Percival’s, the end of it pressing into his cheek. He breathes for a moment, in and out. Percival’s hand moves with the rise and fall of his ribs. He cannot really see into Percival’s eyes this close. There is the darkness of his pupils and the overlapping blur of everything else. Credence closes his eyes and presses his mouth against Percival’s lips.

He puts his hands against Percival’s shoulders. Credence cannot touch lightly. He grabs on just to feel the solidness of flesh. He gropes Percival’s arms with both hands. He cannot get enough. There is so much of him, his broad hands and broad back, the hardness of his ribs and softness of his belly. 

Credence breathes too heavily. His heart beats too fast.

He finds the waist of Percival’s breeches. His fingers find buttons that are doubtlessly red. Percival groans against his mouth loudly enough that Credence feels it in his teeth. He could touch Percival over his clothing, of course. If he were a more controlled man, Credence might even strip Percival completely before touching him the way he wants to. Instead, he tries to pull away from the kiss enough to speak. Percival’s mouth follows him, lips against his lips.

“Please,” Credence says. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Percival pants against his mouth. “Please, yes, Credence.”

Credence blindly puts his hand beneath the fabric of Percival's tight breeches. His hand touches bare skin and thick, curling hair. Startled, he pulls back and looks. He sees his pale wrist against the bright red of the fabric. He can see the shape of his own hand and the swell of Percival’s erection. He pushes aside Percival's unbuttoned breeches and finds nothing but skin.

“Oh,” he says.

“I didn't expect, uh,” Percival says. “Well, anything really. These are just very tight and the waistcoat — I mean, everything was covered.”

Credence moves his hand under the fabric until he grasps Percival’s hard prick. It's hot to the touch, enough to make him suck in a breath. Percival's legs strain as though he wants to move. Holding it firmly, Credence draws Percival’s erection out to be seen. He hardly blinks, so taken by the sight of his own pale hand around that obscene flesh. Spit gathers under his tongue. He bites the insides of his cheeks.

Dark hair and red fabric frame it so that all Credence can see is how ruddy the tip is, half concealed by skin. He moves his hand slowly, watching the pull of that skin.

Credence’s own hardness seems to throb with every beat of his heart. His face flushes all the way to his throat and the back of his neck. Even the tips of his ears burn with it. He touches Percival the way he has touched himself, but he wants so much more.

With both hands, Percival takes his breeches and shoves them down his hips to his thighs. Credence can see the pale curves of his body, then, and the folds of skin between thigh and hip. He has Percival almost fully exposed.

“I think we should lie down,” Credence says, light-headed and unsure.

“Should I — ?” Percival begins to ask. He does not finish his question. With his breeches halfway down his thighs, Percival takes Credence by his bare shoulder as he moves. Credence goes as easily as if he were tied to Percival by rope or magic. Percival pulls him down on top of him when he lies back against Credence’s bed. His head rests on Credence’s pillow.

Credence leans down and presses his face into the space between Percival’s cheek and the pillow. His nose pushes up against Percival’s earlobe. He could kiss his jaw, even his throat, if he wanted. He’s not sure what he wants. There are too many possibilities.

Percival’s hands settle on his shoulders. His whole back trembles, every muscle, but Percival touches him lightly anyway. Hands along the line of his curving spine and down his ribs. 

“Is this alright?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says. He moves down until his face is against Percival’s neck. He feels Percival’s cock pressing up against his belly, bare skin against skin. 

Percival’s fingers find the waist of Credence’s pants, sewn to fit close to his exact shape. Like a glove, he thinks, but he has never owned gloves that fit as well as this costume. He reaches down, his knuckles dragging across the inside of Percival’s thigh, and pulls the buttons open blindly. He feels the stitches give on one. He stops.

“Please,” Percival says. “If you’d like to…”

He trails off again. Credence lifts his face just enough that he can see Percival’s eyes. For a moment, Credence cannot breathe — let alone think. The thread holding another button snaps when Credence moves his hand too roughly. He pushes down his pants and the underwear beneath them as one. Percival helps him with both hands. 

“Oh God,” Credence says.

He clutches at anything he can grab, the bedsheets one moment and Percival’s hair the next. He brings his mouth to Percival’s lips already opened. Sweat runs down the curve of his back as he arches. He does not know what he’s doing. He must do it anyway. 

His cock presses against Percival’s, moves into the space beside it and then above it. He moves and Percival guides his hips with gentle hands. Credence breathes into Percival’s mouth as much as he kisses him. 

“Is that good?” Percival asks, as though Credence could answer him like this. 

Feeling more like fire than flesh, Credence grinds his hips down against Percival’s with every panting breath. Percival pushes up against him slightly, matching him. This is why some people think dancing obscene, Credence thinks. He groans. 

When Percival tries to speak again, Credence’s tongue in his mouth muffles him. He pulls away just to hear Percival shout. “Credence!”

Percival’s fingers dig into the space where Credence’s thighs begin. He holds Credence tightly and Credence’s body spasms. He makes obscene sounds with his lips crushed against Percival’s. 

Every groan from Percival makes him press his body down harder. Their chests press so closely that Credence imagines his heart might leave his body and sink into Percival’s beneath him. It mustn’t last long. Credence’s heart would surely give out if it went on forever, but he feels as though it does. 

He says Percival’s name, or he tries. His legs shake. He comes in the space between their bodies, hot and wet.

His body feels terribly heavy, instantly transformed from burning fire into wet cement. Credence pulls his mouth away from Percival’s and tries to breathe. Percival moves his hand up Credence’s sweaty back.

He thinks of his scars and his shoulders jerk.

“Hmm,” Percival says, his lips against Credence’s cheek. Beneath Credence’s body, Percival feels too hot. He’s still aroused and Credence doesn’t know what to do about that. He’s not sure what Percival wants from him.

He opens his mouth, but his tongue feels like a stone.

“Credence,” Percival says. “Did that feel as good as it sounded?”

He nods.

“Good,” Percival says. His fingers trace the curve of Credence’s shoulder blade.

Percival kisses his cheek, once and then twice. He gently tilts his chin to rub his face against Credence’s, even though Credence has a day of beard on him and must feel something like steel wool. Credence feels the end of Percival’s nose against his ear and then has his ear kissed.

“Do you mind if I take care of myself?” Percival asks. “You can stay just as you are.”

Credence’s next breath rattles his ribs. “I want.”

“Yes?”

Bracing his hands against the mattress, Credence pushes himself up just enough to look down at Percival. He feels the blood in his face; he must be entirely red by now.

“I want to,” Credence says, “take care of you.”

Percival’s eyes grow wide. His pupils are a perfect darkness in which Credence could lose himself.

“Oh,” he says, before he licks his lips. “Alright then.”

Credence waits for Percival to tell him what to do. The sweat begins to cool on his bare chest. 

Percival’s hand eases away from Credence’s shoulder and moves to his face. His thumb traces a line over Credence’s cheek. Percival leans up until their mouths meet. He kisses Credence slowly, but thoroughly. The fire is still there. Credence feels his mouth tense with a flinch. 

He pulls away from the kiss and lifts himself off of Percival. A hand on his arm could stop him, but doesn’t. It’s only a touch. 

“I wouldn’t mind if we finished undressing,” Percival says. His eyes glance down Credence’s body.

Credence moves his hands with the intent of covering himself, but at this point it strikes him as ridiculous. He’s spent, but not yet soft, with his pants around his thighs. It’s slightly too late to worry about impropriety. 

He swallows and hooks his thumbs under the bunched up fabric. He’ll have to iron these pants after he cleans them. Thankfully, that’s much easier with magic.

“Yes,” Credence says as he tries to get his pants and underwear past his knees. Half-folded over himself, he has quite the view of Percival. The dark hairs that go up his belly have been smoothed flat against his skin with the slick of Credence’s sweat and come. Credence puts his leg over the edge of the bed and shakes it to knock his pants off to the floor. His socks come off easily once he’s loosened the garters that cut into his skin above his calves.

“Should I —”

Credence looks up once he's undressed completely. A few strands of dark hair stick to the skin of Percival’s temple. His prick seems to move with every rise and fall of his broad chest. The light through the thin curtain paints his body in reddish shadows, like flames. Credence’s throat goes dry.

“Do whatever you like with me,” Percival says.

He reaches out to settle one hand on Credence’s bare thigh above his knee.

“Within reason,” he adds. “Of course.”

Credence blinks very slowly, but Percival’s dark eyes and flushed cheeks do not dissolve away like a daydream.

“Of course,” he says. His voice jumps an octave in the middle of speaking only two words, but Percival only smiles at him and rubs his thumb against the hair on Credence’s legs. He takes a few deep breaths.

He puts his hands against Percival’s thighs. If he moves them up, he could hold Percival by the hips and do any number of things. If he moves them down, he could finish peeling Percival’s breeches off of him. He could probably even do both, what with magic at his disposal. He could do anything; Percival has as much as invited him to.

Credence runs his hands down until he grasps Percival’s breeches. He pulls and finds that under it all, Percival’s red stockings are held up by ribbons tied around his legs above his knees. He smiles and feels some hysterical joy rising in him, as effervescent as soda.

“What are you laughing about?” Percival asks. 

Credence glances up with his hands at Percival’s well-shaped calves. “Nothing.” 

He moves down the bed to get Percival’s breeches off completely, then quickly folds them and turns half-around to tuck them away in his trunk.

“Do you know…” Percival begins to say.

Credence turns around in a rush and looks at him.

“What?” he asks, with his hands suspended in the air.

“I was going to say,” Percival says, “do you know how exquisite you look?”

Credence opens his mouth to speak, but the words don't come. He blinks. His jaw hangs open.

“That's a bit much, isn't it?” Percival adds.

All Credence can do is shake his head until his senses come back to him. “No, no, that's fine, really. Say anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Credence says.

He leans forward until his hands hit the bed. He hasn't unlaced the ribbons holding up Percival’s stockings yet. It doesn't seem that important anymore.

“Kiss me,” Percival says.

All the air in Credence’s lungs rushes out all at once. He throws himself down against Percival and kisses him urgently. Percival’s teeth catch on the corner of his mouth. All of Credence’s skin seems to touch Percival’s. Oh, why didn’t he undress before? It feels better than anything ought to. He gropes at Percival’s chest and down his ribs. His hips fit so well in Credence’s hands. But his cock fits even better.

Percival groans against Credence’s tongue. His thighs tense and he moves his whole body against Credence’s touch. It feels as good as magic, the impossible made real. This is truly Percival Graves and Credence can make him sound like this.

He only touches him the way he might touch himself, but Percival puts his arms around Credence’s back and grips him with desperation.

“Credence,” Percival says. “Credence.” 

His nose presses against Percival’s cheek. With Credence’s chin rubbing against his jaw, Percival cries out in a voice made to fulfil Credence’s wildest fantasies. The lights of the city filter through Credence’s curtains. Credence pulls back just to see Percival like this. His heavy brows draw down over his tightly shut eyes. His beautifully formed mouth hangs open, so pink and so wet. There’s a flush in his cheeks, even his forehead. 

Credence’s heart pounds like a riot inside his chest.

Wetness spills into the curl of Credence’s fingers as Percival cries out again, a deep groan of relief. His dark eyes blink open. His body shakes under Credence’s.

Percival relaxes slowly. His flesh softens slightly in Credence’s hand, but Credence doesn’t know what to do now.

So Percival moves first, lifting his hand to Credence’s cheek.

“I’m not sure I can stay up all night,” he says, his voice low and soft. “Even with the coffee.”

“We don’t have to,” Credence says.

“I’d like to,” Percival says. 

There is nothing to be said to that. Credence presses himself down against Percival completely. He kisses the marks on Percival’s cheeks, the spots and the scars. He kisses the freckle in Percival’s hairline.

“I would truly like to,” he adds.

“I don’t mind sleeping,” Credence says. “With you, I don’t think there’s much I wouldn’t like to do.”

The breath hums out of Percival’s chest. “A dangerous impulse.”

“I know,” Credence says, kissing Percival’s throat. 

He works his way up toward Percival’s ear. “You’re not a villain.”

“Oh?” Percival says. “Does that mean you’re not really a masked hero, then?”

Credence smiles with his mouth against Percival’s earlobe. He catches it between his teeth just because. Both of them laugh.

“Take your socks off,” Credence says. 

“But my feet are warm like this,” Percival says. The arch of his stocking foot rubs against Credence’s shin.

“They’ll be warm enough under my quilt,” Credence says. “I’m very good at warming charms.”

They continue kissing as Credence pulls the quilt over both of them. Credence has to speak the charms, but they leave his skin tingling with warmth. Percival’s arms around his waist certainly help, as does the feeling of their legs entwined.

His body has never been so close to any other body, not like this. An energy that doesn’t seem to be only the coffee runs through him. He listens to Percival start to snore softly. Their breathing falls into the same pattern. Credence’s chest rises and falls along with Percival’s. 

He thinks of what he can make for breakfast; he wonders what Percival would like. 

Credence dreams of having dinner in Paris with Percival Graves, but now the dreams capture the exact sound of Percival’s laughter and the specific taste of his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s and twitter @jffgldblm90s

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s and twitter @jffgldblm90s


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